for breakfast

I had Huevos a la Mexicana, Cafe con Crema, and some really great Mark Twain




That man is so good, he makes me want to never write another word again, simply out of reverence.

No speaka the language

There are a few benefits to not speaking the local language.

One is sweet oblivion, a sort of ignorance is bliss. There is a calmness that comes from not knowing when people are making fun of you, especially when you know they should be. Or when men are saying things about you that you would just rather not hear. Then, if you chose, you can assume most people mean well, unless proven otherwise through vibe or action. (It is safer than it sounds)

Silence is another perk. It keeps your mouth shut and thoughts inward, alternation of meditation and progressive obsession that works out deep seated worries, fears and problems.

There are drawbacks too, of course, like, well, not understanding what people are saying to you... and the consequences of such situations. Like paying for a first class bus ticket and ending up on a second class bus with no AC. Which I suspect is what has happened here, as I write from my bumpy, very warm seat. At least there is plenty of room, the scenery is lovely and I can smell everything, which keeps it real.

And at least I am going to the right town... I think.

Barra de Navidad

Decided to cut the movement short a little. Part of it is due to the very nature of bus travel and the fact that I was often assigned aisle seats and couldn´t see out the window. Part of it was due to bad food availability- I was living off trail mix and Cliff Bars from home, mixed with the occassional street quesadilla. And part of it was due to a sort of Come to Jesus experience, of which I will spare the details here... mostly because it´s embarassing and personally revealing. Who wants to read about such things?



I´m in Barra de Navidad. It is one of two towns on a cove made of jungle covered mountains. The streets are cobblestone, chaotically created, and the buildings bright. The beach has a steep approach so just one big green-blue wave crashes repeatedly onto the shore. They sell peeled mangos on a stick: $1 during the day, 50 cents at night. My hotel is cheap, very clean and has a balcony overlooking the street. There´s no AC and the bed is a touch softer than sleeping on a wooden floor but a good fan... and the people are extremely nice. I feel safe and at home. I´m staying here instead of continuing the bus hopping. There´s transportation directly to the Guadalajara airport and I´ve booked a flight to Cancun for about the same price as overland travel. And I get to swim in the ocean, snorkle, eat fish and sleep lying down.

Bus transport was getting repetitive and old and I felt I had mastered that course- maybe with a B+ even. I had logged over 50 hours already and had another 60 hours to go, sleeping sitting up and doing little coloring or writing because of the bumping and swaying. And anyway, what´s the fun of (solo, especially) travel if you don´t get to change your mind? It´ll be nice to get to know the entire layout of just one place, if only for a couple of days. Viva Barra de Navidad!

friends make all the difference

I met them in a vestibule between the cars, a little spot with three doors over which you can lean and see the train curve around the bends, the scenery come right at you, and get deep breaths of fresh air mixed with diesel smoke.

A young Mexican couple from Chihuahua City, Alma and Leo. Alma is one of the most naturally charming people I have ever met. The very act of speaking makes her smile, showing off small, bright teeth. And she has a lisp from the top of her mouth, present in both English and Spanish. Delicate face, very dark hair, high but unpretentious cheek bones. Her English is fabulous and flows smoothly. She has never taken a formal class outside high school but worked at a Subway sandwich shop in North Carolina for 8 months, going from "credit or debit?" to near fluency. She went to school for architecture and her intelligence shows in a sharp sense of humor and a light, laid back way, radiating everywhere she goes. Easy to adore.

Leo is full of Rockabilly style: fauxhawk, Armani t-shirt, perfect rebel jeans. He went to University of Texas in El Paso and majored in finance. Driven in everything. He worked summers at a country club in North Carolina, pulling 15 hour days with no breaks so he could save money for his tuition. He´s had interships with NY Life and Microsoft and, like Alma, is currently unemployed. They said they are currently solving the traveling conundrum: no job, no money, with job, no time. They feel confident they´ll find work soon.

They´ve been together 8 years. She´s 25 and he´s 26, so that is their whole adult lives. I´m in love with them as a couple- established, comfortable but still affectionate and in love, and possessing great humor, to each other and as a couple. You can´t help but feel at ease around them. Beautiful.

We talked for hours on the vestibule, alternating the spot at the window. When they found out I was going to Mazatlan as well, Alma simply stated

"Then we go together."

Leo handled everything- taxis, buses, hotel arrangments. We got an overnight bus from Los Mochis at 3am, arriving in Mazatlan at 9am (something I could never brave on my own). I had picked a super budget motel from Lonely Planet, but with the help of the taxi driver, they found another in the same neighborhood that was much nicer. Even though they had selected another place for themselves further up town, they insisted on staying in the room next door to mine.

I can´t explain Mexican hospitality. They listened carefully anytime I offhandedly mentioned what I´d like to do: buy a Lycra rashguard (surf shirt), look for a skirt, eat seafood, see the strange church-shaped nightclub on the jetty. They made these things a priority. What? I couldn´t refuse, but I quit mentioning my plans so there would be more room to do what they wanted too. We went to a perfect spot to enjoy a beer and simultaneously watch the moon rise and the sun set. There we met a couple of other guys who drove us to and from the nightclub, one teaching me all the new Mexican dances.

My time with them gave me great confidence, not only in bettering my Spanish and learning more about this beautiful country, but also in bargaining and making my way around. A confidence that was quickly shaken when, going to buy a coconut by myself, I was charged 25% more than when they were around, and was unable to talk the guy down. Anyway...

I don´t know how the repay them for their kindness but we talked about them coming to Colorado for skiing lessons, so hopefully I´ll get to try. I let them sleep the next morning and just left Alma´s dress she let me borrow on their door, along with contact information and the cowboy hat I had bought on the beach. It looked better on her anyway. The next part of this trip stretches out in aloneness again. Not all that bad, but missing the sweetness that comes from other humans. As my Swiss friend at the farm in New Zealand said:

"Some people don´t leave home because they say all their friends are there. That´s not true. You don´t know where your friends are."

a seat

The ticket man came back and spoke to me in English. I told him I was going to Los Mochis and was a student. He said:

"I think we have a seat for you."

My first thought was "That´s not fair. What about everyone else" There were elderly folk, not to mention a lot of other young, Mexican girls in there with us. They should get first dibs. But it would have be more rude for me to refuse.

His assistant checked his roster and said something to his boss.

"Yes, number 62 in the next car. Do you want a boyfriend? He is sitting in the other seat."

"Haha, no. I already have a novio."

"Well, maybe we can get you a husband instead. There are a lot of single mens on this train."

His teenage assistants in their faux tuxedos and slicked hair stood beaming behind him.

"Thanks. I´ll let you know if I change my mind."

He only charged me $315 pesos for my ticket, about 1/4 what I expected to pay on the 1st class train. I was kind of sad to leave my cramped space, but I had the sense that the man and woman squeezed next to me were plenty happy to see me go.

The seat is on the aisle and the car isn´t AC'ed like the snack bar, but it´s extremely comfortable and I have a place to store my luggage when I explore. My "boyfriend" is keeping to himself and I´m feeling rocked asleep. Nap. Coffee. Beauty out the window.

Tren

We´re picking up speed and rocking ever so gently. Class Economica. My Spanish is horrendous. Apparently at least two people told me the first train was at 8am. I thought they were saying it that was when the ticket office opened. Silly girl. Ain´t no stinkin´ ticket office here. Only in Chihuahua. So I missed the 1st Class train, which Lonley Planet says is the only way to see the good scenery. Oops.

When the train arrived, the kid next to me asked if I spoke English. He translated for the men yelling out the car doors:

"No room! No room!"

The train stopped anyway and something else was yelled. People started pushing their way into the car in front of us. My new friend told me we could ride if we could fit. I grabbed ahold of the railing and pulled myself into the crowd, up the stairs. The man at the top asked me:
¨
"Tren?"

I wasn´t sure how to take that. This obviously wasn´t the bus, but I also obviously had little idea of what was going on.

"Um, si, gracias"

We had fought for a spot on the snack cart. No seats left anywhere else. I chose, as Lonely Planet suggested, the left side of the train and laid my bag flat. Sitting on it gave me viewing level for the scenery. I think the ticket man is coming through. With that out of the way, I plan to take my blanket out and sleep solidly, slumped over on the window.

At home, I kept waking up around 4am, thrashing in my sheets. During the day, even when everything feels heavy, I´m able to pull the reigns on my thoughts a bit. But in the deepest REM, subconscious takes over and my mind caves in. Last night in Cuahtemoc, though, I slept solidly, deep, dreamless. Planned to do the same thing now. I think travel should be prescribed for anxiety and depression.

At Chuahtemoc, I asked the lady at the bus ticket window where Hotel San Francisco was. I understood ¨"una" and a hand signal, then "tres- cuatro" and another gesture.

Sounds close.

Sun was nearly set and I found it no problem. The desk clerk immediately realized how bad my Spanish is and spoke slowly, pointing to signs, using his hands and smiling sympathetically. The train station? 4 calle away. I love this town.

Room schedule was back to Asia days- unpack so it all fits in better tomorrow. Hot shower. Spy on the neighboring building where there was a private boxing lesson in progress. And the crown of every evening- up the iPod and dance out the day´s time spent sitting. New, energetic music and I prayed no one could spy in this direction as well.

This trip is about me finding my footing again, my own voice. Even if that means being mostly mute in a sea of foreign tongue. Especially if it means that.

smelling the scenery

I´m finally allowing myself to finish a book I´ve held in court for months. But am constantly distracted by my window and this countryside of green rolling hills and distant purple mountains, topped in highlighted thunderclouds. I think tomorrow, on the train, I´ll spend all day just staring out the window, or standing in the platforms between the cars, smelling the scenery.

sold

I changed my plans from one coast to the other, mostly so I can take the Copper Canyon train. As my friend Barry says when he travels:

I´m here. It´s there. Why not?

Purusing the guidebook on the way to Chihuahua, I found the train leaves from the city at 6am. But a little town up the way, Cuahtemoc, has a station too, with a departure time of 9:30am. It´s smaller, easier to negotiate and Lonely Planet says there´s a Hotel San Francisco that´s cheap, clean and has great Mexican breakfasts done simply.

Sold.

Bought my ticket, got on the bus, then looked for it on the map.

On the way down

Sitting here in the Ojinaga bus terminal with my selfdone pink manicure, bits of dark blue Smartwool sock stuck in the topcoat, I´m still a little anxious, but it´s lessening. I don´t feel like I´m fully in Mexico yet, as border towns are. The man who sold me my bus ticket had an almost accent free English. But this will change, I´m sure.

On the drive down from Alpine, there was a dust devil, sucking thick white dirt into the air. Tall, it was soild. And I thought about how, in my worst dreams, tonadoes hunted me down. But when things turned to good, I was able to unravel their funnels, disapating the fear. On the top of this devil was disperson, a thinning cloud as it gave up power over its captives, letting them loose to float or fly. I couldn´t take my eyes off it, off its gentle self destruction and return to peace.

And I couldn´t help but think: Yes, that´s what I want. I want to be like that.

Mexico and a forward gaze

Before deciding to make this trip to Mexico, I had to question whether or not I was running away from something. Came to the conclusion that it is seldom we depart a place voluntarily and not feel happy to leave a few things behind. Waiting for emails from my traveling love, the internet in general, an empty house, the lack of job, an all-too-open schedule... there are a few things I wouldn't mind a break from.

But what's all this about running AWAY? What about running TOWARDS?

Thought about it on my 45th or whatever lap around the gym today (it's a small gym). Running, running, running. Then occasionally singing random notes and disturbing the basketball players below. Hum, instead of looking behind, let's refocus to a forward gaze for this trip:

1) Hours on the bus for reading and doing nothing else; getting through some things I keep putting aside because I feel guilty being lazy, or at least not producing something.

2) Waters lapping at my toes and boats out at sea.

3) The quiet tombs of old Mexican cathedrals, echoing the voices of thousands past from their cool walls. And a reconnection to Catholic heritage in them, remembering now that I am more united with God that I have ever been and that this started in Sacred Coeur.

During a layover in Paris on the way to Madagascar, I knelt to pray at the front of this amazing church, and could think of nothing to request. The only thing I could say honestly was, "Thank you. Thank you for everything. Whatever happens on this trip, I am grateful for. You owe me nothing, and I owe you the same. Let's give each other all we have."

4) The chance to mail postcards.

5) Everyday survival awareness and taking that alertness wherever I go after (wherever being grad school, a tough place to thrive if you are feeling numb).

6) Women and their children and hopefully (*crosses her fingers*) chickens on a few rickety voyages.

7) Being anonymous. Alleluia.

8) New people, new influences on my life, new ways of thinking, and being, and talking, and framing the world.

These came alive to me when a friend reminded me of our previous Mexico trip, and particularly that moment in the ocean when a storm was rolling in. I had drank a touch of tequila and was trying hard to conquer the waves. No matter how low I dove or how fast I kicked, they wouldn't let me out past their breakers. I was standing in the small waves screaming at the ocean to bring it on, as my daring friend, for the only time I've ever seen, pulled the safety card and talked me out of the water.

9) I'm looking forward to something like that too.

The great boon and danger of being human is the ability to rationalize anything. I am probably doing that here. But I'll take it. Sometimes I know I'm just not ready to surrender entirely.

relaxed at the spine and wide to the world

Little girl: "Does God have wings?"

Mom: "I don't guess so. He doesn't need wings to fly. God can do anything he wants."

Little girl: "So He can draw without a pen?"

My mind just opened like a glossy-photo, table-top book, pages sliding to their natural position, relaxed at the spine and wide to the world, crease of stress between plucked eyebrows finally smoothed. Infinite. Realizing for the umpteenth time that existence is endless and sometimes unimagined.

Old Chairs

Yes, I'm procrastinating.

Wilco does so many fabulous songs fabulously (you can quote me on that). "Reservations"- the lyrics are brilliant, but I am partial to the instruments at the end. As with many songs on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, it's sounds like sonic randomness at first. But as you close your eyes and hone in, you can hear movement and emotion and visions.

Two empty rocking chairs, wooden, moving slightly in the wind. Sometimes the chairs belong to an old couple, empty because they are inside making a basil and homegrown tomato salad together, enjoying what they grew in the backyard garden. Sometimes, they have passed away and that low, muffled voice filtering through the creaks and moans is the ghost of the husband, telling his wife about that piano he wanted to buy for her wedding gift- a shiny, mahogany standup. No doubt the porch is weathered grey with time and rain, family gatherings and slamming doors. It looks out onto something vast and dry, Texan in the FarWest way- miles and miles for your mind to run down, nobody coming but that old Chevy delivering mail. Quiet.

Sometimes the chairs belong to a young couple, inherited from her grandmother. The deck is newly waterproofed and screened to keep the bugs at bay. They are inside now, discussing the color of yellow they should pick for the nursery, looking for the keys to the car, a trip to the local hardware store. Those chairs will stand guard for them... will cuddle that little girl coming in the spring, lull her to sleep when she has a nightmare, tilt dangerously as she tests her balance, rock wildly as she remembers her first kiss. And they will be there when this couple becomes old, whispering secrets of the past.

*creeaak* *chills* *creeeaaak* *chills*
Again, again, again, I have to hear it again...

lay me the garden/ Jack-Jack

February 6, 2008

The beautiful song below was playing in my ears last night as I cruised down the busy streets to trivia. A memory washed over me:

The same week the sixth Harry Potter came out, I found a baby jackrabbit. I thought he was lost after a recent flood; he seemed to be nursing on a cactus. He was so tiny but had these beautiful, long silky ears that stretched down his back. Allen and I were on a walk and after some discussion, we decided to take him home. A few months earlier I had nursed a three week old kitten for the Humane Society- Yoda, for the way his ears moved when he ate.

The vet said to mix Pedia-lite and goat's milk and administer it via bottle, so we tried that with this little guy as well, with Jack-Jack.

Touch is really important to all mammals and especially baby ones, so I held him next to my heart every chance I had. I'd lay on the couch reading Harry Potter and he's ride my breath up and down, twitching his nose, having his ears stroked. He came with me to church, to the store, on walks. I loved that Jack-Jack. It was so beautiful to see him grow and change- the first time he lifted his ears off his back, the first day he jumped across the Airstream, his first nibble of grass. He was moving from baby to rabbit right before my eyes. It was a miracle.

He usually jumped inside his box in the morning, but one Saturday there was no movement. It appeared he had emptied his stomach all over the blankets, his body was cool, his eyes tired, he couldn't muster enough energy to hop. I knew he was sick, but I didn't know why.

Was grass introduced too soon? Did I not wash the bottle well enough?

I lifted him up to my heart and held him there for all the morning chores. We had to run to the town for milk and I took him with me, laid him in the box for the ride, and covered him with a blanket. When we got to the store... I could just feel it. I slid the blanket over and he was smaller somehow, breath stopped, eyes glazed, ears sunken to the side of his body. His soul had left. I started wailing.

Allen, four steps from the truck, said nothing. Just about-faced, gently closed my door and drove me back home. I muttered tear-filled gibberish the whole drive back, completely inconsolable. There was something so wrong, so painful about the senseless loss of innocent life. There wasn't room in my heart to understand it, to take it all in. I felt guilty, hopeless, and so, so sorry.

There's a mile of dirt road before the ranch and about a quarter in, I asked Allen to pull over. I had an uncontrollable urge to lay Jack-Jack in a patch of swaying tall grass, let him return to the earth just as he would have if I had never found him, had never touched him. Allen protested- there were so many good trees and special spots near our home- why here? I don't know. I just had to let him go this way. I laid his limp body right on the earth, let the weeds and blades of grass fold over him and said goodbye. I never saw him again, never could find the spot. I'd just wave on every trip to work and home, somewhere in his general direction, in the direction of all the wilderness I'll never understand, that I'll return to myself one day.

__________________
Garden
Gregory Alan Isakov
(Not entirely sure I got all the words right, but this is what I hear)

On the long road, we are just trees
Waving in the wind storm
We are slow wheels
We are potholes
And it passes
Just like lightening
When it's over
We remember nothing

Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I can feed you
Lay me in the garden
And I may live beneath your skin

On the long road, we are tall weeds
Misplaced and misconceived
We are wind blown
I want to go with you
And there's too many streets and avenues
From me to you

Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I feed you
Lay me in the garden X5
There's too many streets and avenues
Lay me in the garden
From me to you

at the end of 34th Street

November 29, 2007

There's a magical world at the end of 34th Street. I pass through it on every southbound journey.

You must cross over a little footbridge to reach this world. Underneath the bridge flows a creek, a growing mosaic of giant snowflake ice. On the other side lies section 8 housing, Boulder style. Big, newly painted colorful buildings with wide lawns and a soccer field. But the cars- Pintos, old Lincolns, minivans with broken windows- show the income. Makes me feel sane, not so cut off from the world.

At one end, near the creek, there is a cul-de-sac. It has two wonderous features. The first is a center median, filled with wildflowers. Today I saw a man with one arm chopping down their remaining stalks. The other is a little family of shopping carts from all different stores around the Boulder area. They change out almost every day, trading big ones for the little two-level jobs, trading Target for Safeway. I don't know their purpose, their tenders, or why there are at least 20 at a time, but I feel as though I visit a little mystery each time I pass.

My entry into this world is always an adventure; it's the only time I really go off road, riding down a steep dirt trail to the sidewalk. I love standing up and coasting down this short *wheeee!* Cul-de-sac mystery, and broken pavement requiring concentration and fair weaving leads to the end, before it meets Valmont; there are planted trees with low lying branches. Stand high and touch their leaves, or now, their bare arms.

This place has become haven for me. It's the beginning of the day and a re-entry to home. It's alive with people, children, someone working on their car, Mexican men with their low whistles. Boulder is, with it's very clean streets, new buildings, shiny exterior, quite nearly out of reach. But here I feel human, normal, almost home.

Poptarts in the treadmill

November 21, 2007

One of the perks of being three years old, from what I can tell, is the lack of artifical boundaries.

For example, I spent a good 20 minutes cleaning poptarts out of the treadmill last night.




Poptarts
Treadmill




These things don't go together in my head, but maybe there's just an artificial boundary between them. To Lanham, the question is not "why would you combine them?" but rather "why wouldn't you?" It makes great crumbs, a royal mess AND breaks expensive machinery. All good things.

(I got in a little trouble for laughing at this- apparently that gives permission and a bad response- "Mommy, it's not BAD, it's FUNNY.")

I'm noticing several such juxapositions, hanging out with him. Putting dinosaurs in a cattle truck, drinking soapy water in the sink, standing on the toilet paper. Maybe these things that seem so common sense are actually drilled into our heads as artificial lines in the sand.

It's a bit like traveling, I guess. You show up in a new country and have only a general sense of what's going on. I can't judge- I wore African lingerie in Madagascar for two weeks until someone told me differently.

Lingerie
Public

Didn't go together in their heads, but made perfect sense to me.

Such a fuzzy boundary between society and our minds.

that was fun!

December 23, 2008

My family and I went to the mall today to see choo-choos. Lanham loves trains- Thomas the steam engine is his hero and he can lable all the different types- box cars, diesels, steam engines, cabooses, other things I've never heard of. I was a bit nervous about this field trip for several reasons, most revolving around the natural ups and downs of a family holiday.

There were high points- my favorite was linking arms with my dad, Lanham holding his other hand and Christina, my sister, holding Lanham's. The four of us wove in and out of the crowds, sometimes becoming like a congo line, sometimes ducking and negotiating, but always staying linked. It was beautiful.

Then, of course, there were sticky moments that aren't worth elaborating upon.

Lanham, in his wise three year old self, summed it up well. When we finally got to the train exhibit... the entry way, anticipation, excitement, overstimulus, lack of nap... something, really got to him and he started screaming bloody murder. So upset. He calmed down a bit inside, but Christina and Brad rushed him through so as to avoid another melt down. My parents and I came out 10 minutes behind them and found him happily sipping a smoothie. He looked up at us and smiled- "That was fun!"

Just like the holidays, I guess. Or childbirth, maybe. A bit rough getting through, but in hindsight, you remember the good points and think how fun it was, think how you might just do it again.

solar panel

I am sitting in a tank top and the sun is filtering over my friend's shoulder onto mine, my face, my hair, my book. And it is the sweetest absorbing- like happiness in light form. A tiny round rainbow spectrum is radiating from somewhere, following the words down my page,

"I have suggested that our quest for radical alterity shapes and is shaped by our conceptualizations of "cultures" as discrete, self-contained, self-reproducing universes of of shared customary practices and beliefs...."

Breathe

like liver/ hitting the bag- still workshopping

The more you mess with emotions, the more they fall apart in your hands, like operating on a liver... so I think I’ll just let her be...

It does her in
The difference in him
Between actions and words
It’s absurd
The weight she put in it
and now she sits
on the fence with everyone else
Hesitate at their belts
wondering if they’re the same, desire their game
Left her down and confused, feeling used as a prize set aside by pathetic lies,
Tried to be honest and bare, let down her hair,
heart on sleeve,
and she’d like to believe
She has the strength to burn again, keep a thin skin, take the pin out of the weapon
and throw it in the den
of another lion.
She’s trying.
She’ll take devils out with this punch
like numbers she’ll crunch in her head about the choices
emotions to the surface...
Love will never be perfect
What is she aiming for?
Even the score?

Or those patterns on the back of leaves
Their movement and grace
*breath* She’s shaking
Is it really worth taking
a heart out and looking at it?

Reassurance

Beat the hell out of the bag today. No bag gloves allowed for sanitary reasons, so I just used wraps. It started with shadow boxing in the mirror and a few form-oriented hits on the bag. Then, I don't know what happened. Lasted 5 minutes, maybe- free flowing thoughts of frustration and disappointment and upset and anger and all those things I haven't been feeling lately. They went through my feet, past twisting hips and out the arm, my shoulders lightly popping me in the chin as I blocked.

*right* *right left* *right left*
*right right right right left*
*RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT LEFT*
*LEFT LEFT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!!*

Stepped back a bit dazed and looked down at purple knuckles. I could feel slight cuts under the wraps. *whew* What the fuck?




Walked out of the gym feeling 10 pounds lighter. The emotions weren't gone- just brought at the surface to be sloghed off by radio cures and a cool night air. The moon was blinding.
Returning to study, I reread a poem I received this week.

Reassurance

I must love the questions
themselves
as Rilke said
like locked rooms
full of treasure
to which my blind
and groping key
does not yet fit

and await the answers
as unsealed
letters
mailed with dubious intent
and written in a very foreign
tongue.

and in the hourly making
of myself
no thought of Time
to force, to squeeze
the space
I grow into.
-Alice Walker